Doctor Who_ The Banquo Legacy - Andy Lane [3]
There was a flash like lightning behind his eyes as the knife ‐from his own kitchen, though he scarcely had time to remark it – was driven up past his ribs and into his heart. He felt his sweat freeze and saw his blood splash over her. His arm lashed out unbidden across the table, catching the hourglass, knocking it on its side and shattering the lower bowl.
‘Our time –’ he gasped. But he could not finish the line. Already he could feel the blood as it rose in his throat and she pushed the knife back into his chest. He felt a sudden final impulse to catch the grains of sand as they trickled over the edge of the table to the floor. But they fell dryly through his fingers and he felt the floor smash into his falling shoulder.
For a split second he saw her standing beautiful over him, the knife dripping like her gory locks as she raised it again. Then the image glazed and the crimson of her mouth and hair blurred until everything was scarlet and silent.
* * *
She let the knife slip to the floor and knelt down over him, pulling the stained dressing gown away from his ripped torso. She held her face close against his chest and let the blood bubble and gush into her mouth and nose and eyes. Laughing into it. She felt clean at last, rubbing handfuls of the liquid over her hair and face, into her cold stomach and wet breasts, bathing in his death.
* * *
The still, gaunt figure in the doorway watched impassively. ‘It seems I’m just in time,’ it murmured.
* * *
Arrival: 1898
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Fitz shouted above the maelstrom of noise. It was the third time he had shouted the same question. It was the third time he got no answer.
The light was a blood-red strobe that scythed back and forth through the blackness of the console room. Compassion’s cries were quieter now, but the anguish, the hurt, was every bit as intense. They mixed in with the roar and scrape of materialisation.
The Doctor was clinging to the console with one hand; the fingers of his other hand rattled over the controls and he peered at readouts, snatching information from the flashes of illumination as the light passed.
Fitz was sprawled across a chair, afraid to move in case he was tipped out and flung around the bucking floor. ‘Will someone please –’ he shouted again.
‘Power drain.’ The Doctor did not seem to be shouting, but nonetheless his voice was clearly audible as he cut across Fitz. ‘Ninety per cent loss of Artron energy.’
‘Artron what?’ Fitz gave him five seconds before adding. ‘Sorry, I expect you’re busy with… stuff.’
‘See if I can stabilise the systems. Hang on, Compassion!’ The Doctor’s hands were a blur of stop-motion in the flashing light, seeming simultaneously to be poised in three different positions.
‘What about emergency backup power things?’
‘They use Artron energy too.’
‘Can I help?’ Fitz asked, making no effort to move. His stomach lurched with the floor. ‘Or shall I just keep quiet for a bit then?’
‘That would actually be a help.’
He said nothing. Was it his imagination or was the noise diminishing now? He strained to hear the sound of Compassion’s engines, her materialisation noise, above her shrieks of pain. It was not pleasant, and he ached for her more than he would have thought. She was sarcastic and caustic, indifferent and aloof, emotionless and unfeeling. But for all that there was a bond between them. He liked to think that somewhere, under that cool heartless exterior was… well, something at least. Listening to anyone crying in pain was difficult. But when it was a friend, someone you ‐
The crying stopped. The floor straightened itself out. The light settled into a dull blood-red glow rather than a hysterical searchlight.
‘Well done, Doctor.’ Fitz leaped out of his chair and joined the Doctor at the console.
‘I did nothing,’ the Doctor confessed.
Fitz shrugged. ‘Well done anyway. Whatever.’
‘How are you?’ the Doctor asked. There was concern on his face, his eyes were glistening.
Fitz was touched. ‘Oh, I’m fine, actually.